True Story. I wrote “ADDICT’S WAY” while I was homeless. It’s a long story. 453 pages. On Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/LiosiNovelist

the fluorescent lights hummed

like tired gods above the asphalt.

it was 2:13 a.m.

and the automatic doors kept sighing

open and closed

for nobody in particular.

I had a notebook

that smelled like flat beer

and bad decisions.

the minivan next to me

had three kids asleep in the back

their mouths open

like small broken promises.

somewhere a cart rolled loose

across the blacktop

clattering like a drunk prophet

who knew the ending of the story

but couldn’t remember the beginning.

I wrote the first sentence

with a broken laptop I had stepped on.

ink coughing onto paper

like blood from a tired lung.

a man in pajama pants

pushed a cart full of frozen pizzas

and stared at me

like I was the strange one.

maybe I was.

because who starts a novel

between two trash dumpsters?

but that’s where it began.

not in a quiet cabin

not at a polished desk

not in one of those photographs

where writers pretend to be serious.

no:

it began under buzzing lights

with the smell of cheap rubber tires

and hot asphalt cooling into the night.

I wrote

because the words were clawing

at the inside of my skull.

and the truth is

most stories

don’t start beautifully.

they start in places like this:

with a tired man

in a Walmart parking lot

trying to outrun his life

one sentence

at a time.